Just A Lifetime Too Late
by Fili
Summary: One could call the lord Denethor a lot of things, but NEVER irrational...' One of the Tower Guard watches helplessly as Denethor descends into darkness... Slightly AU, NOT slash
1. Chapter 1

_March 11_

_3019_

'Much must be risked in war.' Denethor's voice was cold and dead. 'I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought - not if there is still a captain here who still has the courage to do his lord's will.'

Faramir stiffened slightly at the words. When he spoke, his voice had a slight quiver. 'I do not oppose your will, sire. Since you were robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can in his stead.' He paused, then continued, sounding only slightly more hopeful. 'If you command it.'

The Steward stared flatly at his son. 'I do so.'

Faramir drew in a trembling breath. ' Then farewell,' he bowed, then paused before turning to go. 'If I should return, think better of me, father.'

Denethor continued to stare flatly, though his reply was tinged with anger. ' That will depend on the _manner_ of your return.'

The younger man walked out of the hall, his posture still that of a soldier, but there was a sag to his head and shoulders that radiated defeat to the pity-filled eyes that watched him go. Though not all eyes followed him; many were downcast, too full of shame and rage that the Steward should treat his son in this manner to look up. Only one pair of eyes remained on the Steward, watching as Denethor suddenly looked at his son, started to stand, to say something, but almost instantly subsided, momentarily closing his eyes and pressing his hand to his head as if in pain. When the Steward looked up again, his face was once again a cold mask, and it seemed nothing had changed. Only the single pair of blue eyes, belonging to a soldier standing off to the side, had noticed the fleeting struggle. The soldier's face was a carefully trained mask, but his eyes were filled with confusion and sadness.

His inward cry '_My lord, what has happened to you? Who is responsible for this?' _came out as no more than a small sighing breath.

_o0o_

_October 2971 _

The crisp autumn air smelled of snow. It was a perfect morning to ten-year-old Tatharion's mind, and apparently the young horse he was watching agreed with him, blowing frosty clouds of breath as he ran and frisked about the paddock.

He'd seen this horse a couple of times before, but always from a distance. Tatharion had deliberately taken the time to look for him this morning, and wasn't disappointed. The colt was a chestnut, though more of a honey color than a true red, with a flaxen mane and tail. A broad blaze and four perfect white stockings completed the package of one of the most beautiful horses he'd ever seen.

Tatharion leaned on the fence and stuck his head between the fourth and fifth rails, completely happy with the cold and the horses. As absorbed as he was in the thudding hooves and twisting muscles of the colt, he didn't hear footsteps aproaching.

' What do you think of him?'

The unexpected sound made Tatharion jump, and a small yelp of pain and surprise escaped him as he bashed his head on the fifth rail of the fence. He disentangled himself as quickly as he could and turned to see who had spoken.

A tall man with black hair, dressed in the uniform of a soldier stood behind him. 'I am sorry, I did not mean to frighten you. Is your head hurt?' he asked, sounding truly concerned.

Tatharion managed a small smile. 'Not much, sir.'

The soldier smiled back. 'I'm glad. Who are you?'

'Tatharion, my lord; son of Porelon. Milord,' he added for good measure, uncertain of whom he was addressing.

The soldier laughed, a friendly laugh, not sounding superior at all, and went to lean on the fence. 'Well?' he asked. 'What do you think of him?'

Tatharion stepped up on the first rail and stood on his toes so he could cross his arms on the top one. He was at the annoying height where the fourth rail was exactly in his line of vision, he either had to duck or stretch if he wanted a clear view into the paddock. His mother had laughingly told him he looked a bit like a chicken with all the bobbing and ducking he did trying to see around the rails.

'He's beautiful, sir. What's his name?'

'Culas.'

'Culas,' Tatharion whispered. 'He's not from Rohan, is he? He doesn't look like it, he seems too... well, long! His face and ears, see? And he doesn't have feathers on his legs.'

The soldier glanced down at him. 'You're nearly right. His sire is a Rohan stallion, but he looks more like his dam. She was one of ours.'

Culas had stopped jumping around, seeming to have worked off his excess energy; and now he came over to see them, sniffing and nudging their faces and hands. 'Morning, lad,--hi, stop that! Let go!'

Tatharion couldn't help laughing as the soldier tried to save himself from the horse, who had decided to try and eat his hair.

Culas backed away tossing his head, a hurt expression on his face. 'You great moron,' the soldier growled in mock anger.

'Is he yours, my lord?' Tatharion asked.

'Not for much longer, if he keeps this up!'

Tatharion glanced quickly at the soldier's face, but relaxed when he saw that the man was joking.The soldier started to say something, but glanced instead at the sun and sighed. 'Well, Tatharion, I must be off. Farewell, and take care around this mad horse!'

Tatharion jumped off the fence. 'Farewell, my lord.'

The soldier walked away, but before he turned the corner he looked back and dipped his head slightly, then was gone.

_o0o_

_March_ _11_

_3019_

It was only later that my father found out that his 'soldier' was, in fact, the lord Denethor.

I have a very faint memory of the horse Culas, my father took me to see him one day, long ago. Of course, Culas was no longer the horse he was in my father's story, he was now very old and his beautiful coat was no longer the color of honey in the sun, but he was well cared for and still very friendly and alert.

My father told me something that day that I don't think I shall ever forget. ' You can often tell the quality of a man by his horse, Iniron,' he said. 'If the horse is frightened or vicious, there's a good chance his master is a bad sort. It takes a good man to make a good horse.'

And Culas was a good horse; one of the best.

My father never believed many of the harsh rumors about the man who is now our Steward. He served under him in the military, and they were actually on friendly terms, as much as it was possible. He said Denethor was often stern and quiet, but not cruel. In fact, he was responsible for my getting a place in the Tower Guard. Father told him of my aspirations and Denethor put in a good word for me.

Father was killed two years ago in a skirmish near Ithilien. The lord Denethor came by himself to give his condolances to my mother.

All my life, but especially since joining the Tower Guard, I've seen lord Denethor in a wide range of moods, but I have no explanation for his recent behavior. This past year, but most especially since the lord Boromir left, not to return if the rumors be true (gods grant that they aren't!) Denethor has changed, and not for the better. He never was what one could truly call 'open' but it is as if he has gradually grown a shell around himself and retreated--no, that is not the right word, _sunk_ into it. Or perhaps _been drawn._ However it is, he is hardly recognizable as the same man in my father's stories. When he does come out, he is irrational, and that worries me. One could call the lord Denethor a lot of things, but he was never irrational. Far from it, he was brilliant. No one ever out-foxed him.

Now he's not only irrational, but cruel. He's been reserved as long as I've known him, often taken to be cold, but this blatant cruelty is something new entirely. I don't understand it...


	2. Chapter 2

_March 11_ _3019_

A messenger came earlier from Faramir, saying that orcs from Minas Morgul were marching on Osgiliath, and that they were being joined on the way by the Haradrim. Curse those bloody Southrons! I daresay they're not coming to give us reinforcements.

Although the news was not unexpected, the lord Denethor's reaction _was._ He seemed almost...gleeful, as if something he had long forseen had finally come to pass. Even the news that they were being lead by the dreaded Dark Captain seemed to give him grim pleasure. For my part, I was horrified. It is said that a terror goes before this Captain that no man is able to stand against. Ithilien would still be ours, were it not for him. And now he comes to Osgiliath...

_o0o_

_March 12 3019_

The Sun did not rise today. Part of me is glad that I am here at the Citadel, rather than blundering about in the dark at Osgiliath, trying to descern whether it is a friend or enemy at the other end of my sword.

I don't know where that thought came from, and I am ashamed of it. I'd like to blame it on this confounded darkness. It seems to be weighing on everyone except the lord Denethor. He has been unusually animated, pacing the hall and thinking out loud, plotting schemes and strategies out on scraps of paper.

It raises one's spirits just to watch him. He is so like the Denethor of my father's stories that I begin to wonder if the changes I have seen in him were purely my imagination, or perhaps a dream.

_o0o_

_January 2977 _

' I suppose I should -- be grateful for the shade,' Tatharion's thoughts, like his breath, were coming in jerky gasps. 'But -- I really wish bloody Mordor-- would have picked a -- nicer -- day for this!'

Osgiliath had been attacked shortly after dawn, and the battalion stationed there had been fighting with hardly a respite ever since. It had to be at least noon by now, but it was hard to tell. The sky was masked heavily with low dark clouds that were steadily adding to the slippery slush underfoot.

Tatharion used the hilt of his sword to smash in the face of an orc coming up on his side, then looked wildly around for Denethor. The Steward's son had come to Osgiliath only yesterday to see personally to the conditions there. Tatharion couldn't help but wonder if the attack this morning was mere coincidence, or if the Dark One had somehow known Denethor was going to be all but within his grasp today.

There he was -- on top of a nearby ruined wall with a cluster of archers. He looked to be trying to get a better view of the battle, but Tatharion had to wonder if the better view was worth the risk of being hit by a bolt from an orc's cross-bow. He began fighting his way toward the Steward's Heir; parrying a clumsy blow from an orc, then cutting its neck with a backhanded strike; ducking away from another's mace before shoving his sword through its chest.

He glanced up again at Denethor, saw him stare at something, stiffen, and glance wildly around. Tatharion turned and squinted through the snow, but crumbling walls and archways were blocking his view, he couldn't see what Denethor was staring at. He looked back up just in time to meet Denethor's eyes. The gaze held for a moment, then Denethor turned and shouted something to the archers. He jumped down and caught Tatharion's arm. 'Thorongil is in need of aid! Come!' and he was off running while Tatharion scrambled to keep up, still trying to make sense of what had just been shouted at him.

He slipped in the slush and nearly fell when Denethor made an unexpected turn into a side street... right into a nest of orcs. Denethor quickly killed two and Tatharion the last, then the rest of the street was clear and they ran like mad down it.

A troll stepped into the alleyway ahead of them, and suddenly the street was not clear. Tatharion's first instinct was to slow down and think about going another way, but Denethor barely broke stride.

The troll bellowed and brought its heavy sword down, but Denethor danced neatly under it and brought his own sword up, cutting the underside of the troll's arm. He let the momentum carry him past the troll, bringing his sword hard around and slicing the troll's side.

Tatharion ran past the distracted monster just in time to see Denethor raise his sword over his head, and, with both hands and all his strength, plunge it into the troll's back near its kindeys. The troll roared in pain, stumbled, and fell.

Denethor wrenched the sword out and turned to continue running. 'Hurry!'

A right turn, down another alley, out through a nearly ruined arch, and Tatharion could see their destination.

The strange captain, Thorongil, had fought too far ahead of the rest of the battle, and was now cut off, fighting another troll as a knot of jeering Uruk-Hai did everything possible to make it difficult for him.

Tatharion paused and took a deep breath before he and Denethor charged into the Uruks.

Despite the element of surprise, the Uruks weren't entirely unprepared, and the fight was a fierce one. Tatharion had just killed his second Uruk and was paused, gasping for breath, when a sound from behind caused him to spin around.

The troll from the alleyway was limping under the arch, bleeding and terrible to see. It glanced about at the fighters, and its gaze rested on the Steward's Heir.

Tatharion's eyes widened, and he attempted to shout a warning. 'Milord De--' But he was cut off as the troll roared in fury.

Denethor heard the roar and turned quickly. He seemed frozen in place for a bare second, then ran toward the troll, going wide out of its sword-reach and darting into the archway, climbing on a pile of rubble and pressing his back to the stone. The troll followed determinedly, stamping toward him, but he didn't move. He remained frozen, staring at the troll, waiting...

The troll raised its sword with a roar and swung it with awful strength at the Steward's son. Denethor leaped to the side and tripped as he landed, falling and rolling out of the way. The troll's sword smashed into the side of the arch. The blow shook loose the dangerously weakened morter, and the precarious stones of the arch came crashing down on the troll, knocking it forward, thudding heavily on its head and back. Denethor scrambled to his feet and ran his sword into the downed troll's throat.

The fight continued. Tatharion removed the head of another Uruk; Denethor came climbing back through the rubble of the archway and dispatched one of his own. Thorongil disemboweled his troll and narrowly avoided being crushed as it fell.

Then it was over. The three were panting, looking around for something else to fight, but there was nothing. The street was empty. Tatharion let out deep shuddering breath and slumped against a wall, sliding down to sit on a fallen rock. Thorongil remained standing, but sagged as if he'd never move again. Denethor leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees and breathing hard. 'Well,' he gasped, looking up, 'I think I'll have to cite that troll with creating a nuisance, destruction of property and...' he glanced back at the dead troll blocking the archway, 'obstruction of the roads?'

Tatharion giggled weakly, and it felt so good he found himself laughing till his stomach hurt.

_o0o_

_March 12 3019_

That is the Denethor I had a too-brief glimpse of today.

Another messenger arrived even before the noon-bells rang, to say that Osgiliath had been completely overwhelmed, and Faramir and his men were retreating, hoping to hold the Causeway Forts.

Being a member of the Citadel Guard has many draw-backs, the greatest of which being that one stands about like a peice of decoration, unable, even forbidden to do anything, while a war goes on at one's own gates! It makes one feel cowardly.

Lord Denethor looked almost to feel the same way I did. He pressed the messenger for details, then almost distractedly sent him down to mess to refresh himself, and afterwards fell silent.

The wizard Mithrandir announced that he was needed at the battle and hurredly left. The Steward watched him go, and though his gaze had a small stab of anger in it, it was more one of envy and longing. He resumed pacing the hall, but it seemed restless now, and he often paused at the windows looking to the East.

I noticed, when he passed close by me, that worry lines had tightened between his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

_a/n: I apologise to all my readers for the INSANE amount of time you had to wait for this update. Gollum ate my plot bunnies, and I have not yet been able to replace them... and, as such, this chapter is not as complete as I would like... but half an update is better than no update at all? A thousand thanks to Ellynn for all her help and encouragement, and ElvishKiwi for giving me a well-deserved kick. Please, all of you, don't hesitate to yell at me if you spot errors or if I'm just not updating fast enough! Okay... I'll shut up now and let you read. Hope this chapter was worth the wait._

_Chapter Three_

_March 13, 6:15 a.m._

Imrahil was bent over a map, reckoning, not for the first time, nor, probably, for the last, the distance from Edoras to Minas Tirith. The rider sent to deliver the Red Arrow to Theoden had not returned, and no one even knew if he had survived long enough to fulfill his errand. If they sent out another rider and by some unimaginable chance he managed escape from the City unseen, and by some further miracle he lived to beg Theoden for aid, and the Rohirrim were mustered as quickly as possible... they would never make it to Minas Tirith in time.

'There has been no news at all from any of the outposts?' Imrahil waited a few moments but there was no respnse. Glancing up from his map he saw the Steward staring out the East window, wrapped in his own thoughts. 'Denethor?' Imrahil walked over to stand beside him. 'What is it?'

Denethor was silent for a moment. 'Have I done ill, do you think?' he finally said.

'Ill? In what?'

'Sending Faramir to Osgiliath. It was my hope, my belief, that Theoden would come, and that we could have prevented the enemy ever crossing the River. Now... he has not come, and... Faramir is out there, alone. I did not, _do not_, wish him harm, and never death. I only knew I could trust him to hold as long as possible, he would never retreat while there is the faintest hope of holding. But I never told him any of that. And if he has fallen... what have I done?'

Imrahil ran his hand through his hair. 'What you thought best for the defense. I know you never wished him harm, and I do not blame you for anything,' he said slowly, choosing his words with care. 'No one can forsee how everything will fall out, in war or otherwise. I am sure he lives, if anything had befallen him, we would surely have recieved word.'

Denethor turned to him, and on seeing the expression on his face Imrahil realised how his last sentence had sounded. 'I am sorry.' He laid a hand on Denethor's shoulder. 'If you wish it, I will go and see if he has returned, or if there is any word at all.'

Denethor gave a small nod and Imrahil turned to go.

'Imrahil?'

'Yes?'

'Thank you.'

Imrahil smiled and walked quickly out of the room.

0o0

_7:03 a.m._

_Tock... tock... tock... tock..._ Iniron suppressed a grimace at the sound of Mithrandir's staff on the marble floor. The wizard managed to put an unbelievable amount of insolence into the seemingly innocuous noise.

Mithrandir _tocked_ his way along the room till he was before the Steward's chair, where he stopped and stood silently looking at Denethor. Gondor's Steward returned the gaze with apparent casualness, but did not speak. The ensuing silence was punctuated by distant rumbling_ thuds_ that caused the glass panes in the windows to quiver. Neither man seemed to notice the sounds; if anything, the stares they were directing each other grew more intense. Denethor no longer looked casual, his teeth were clenched and his eyes had grown hard. A muscle twitched in the wizard's cheek, but still neither said a word. Iniron half expected the air between them to burst into flames. At last Mithrandir blinked and looked down, his face troubled. Denethor took a deep breath and straightened in his seat. Iniron was suddenly aware that the Steward had been slowly sagging all the while the eye contact had been maintained. He suddenly looked older, and shockingly tired.

'Steward,' the wizard said finally, jerking his head in what might have been a bow.

'Wizard,' returned said Steward.

A strange expression flickered over the wizard's face. 'I am newly come from the battle at the Forts. The fighting has been fierce all night, and though when I left they yet kept the defence, they could not do so for much longer. They are mightily outnumbered. The injured are being evacuated back to this City, in anticipation of retreat.'

'You returned solely to bring news to this Steward in his unhappy sequestration from the world? How ever so kind of you,' said Denethor acidly. 'One is honored to find that such a mighty wizard as yourself is willing to abase himself to the role of messenger.'

The wizard snorted. 'I am sorry to disillusion you, but I, sadly, did not return solely to fufill the role of a news-bringer. I traveled as guard to the injured, to assure their safe arrival at the Gates,' he said. 'The outer walls are under constant attack, and the Pelennor is secure no longer.'

'I am not yet so decrepit as to have gone deaf, Mithrandir,' said Denethor. He stood up and walked over to the windows, where he stood looking out toward the Pelennor. 'If only this darkness would lift.' Gondor's Steward drew in a long breath and sighed before turning back to the wizard. 'You cannot have come solely to inform me that the outer wall is compromised, any fool in this City could tell me that. What other news do you bring?'

'As I said, the Forts are lost, likely the men are pulling out as we speak. With the walls breached, the enemy can come in at many places, and the likelihood that Faramir's company will meet with an ambush before they can reach the Gates is dangerously high.'

'Faramir still lives?' Denethor took a step forward and seemed to restrain himself just short of gripping the shoulders of the wizard's robe.

'Yes, he does. Or he did when I left. His skill with a sword is excellent, and his Second... Anborn, I believe, is always guarding his back.'

Denethor took a deep breath and suddenly seemed several inches taller. 'Very good,' he said softly, looking down at the white rod in his hand. 'He has some few horses with him,' he said, looking up again. 'The ones he took with him, besides the few kept there, but I do not believe it can be more than forty. Probably less, no doubt several were killed during the night. They will not be enough to ensure the safety of the men on foot, and in event of an ambush, will no doubt somehow be cut off. We have Imrahil's knights at our disposal, besides the cavalry we have here. We can bid them be ready to ride out to Faramir's aid, should he have need of them. Indeed, I do not see that we have any other options. Unless there is something you have not told me..?' he raised an eyebrow at the wizard.

'No.' Mithrandir shook his head slightly. 'The course of action you suggest is the best, and, as you said, likely the only one open to us at this stage of things.'

Denethor frowned. 'If only we had Theoden's Riders, we could perhaps form a counter-strike of some sort, maybe even win back the Rammas Echor. But we do not, and must make shift as we always have.' He beckoned to his guards. 'Come, let us go find Lord Imrahil.'

0o0

_9:48 a.m._

The darkness was no longer so complete, and much more of the Pelennor was visible, though not with any great clarity. _Likely Anor's burning some of the clouds off, but I wish it'd burn faster._ Iniron was in his place behind Denethor as they stood on the Ship's Keel, overlooking the plain far below.

The past hours had been full of activity as Imrahil selected the riders for the company and those men prepared their mounts. Mithrandir had joined them on his beautiful white stallion. Iniron did not know the horse's name, but he was a classic example of the very best Rohhiric bloodlines. Though there was something else about him... something about his eyes, and the way he comported himself, as if he knew as well as any man what was going on. The other horses had given him plenty of berth, one even going so far as to stretch out his nose and make an apologetic chewing motion with his teeth when he had accidentally been bumped by another horse and collided with the white stallion.

Imrahil had stared when Mithrandir had reappeared with the horse, and if the situation hadn't been so serious would very likely have cornered the wizard into a lengthy discussion of bloodlines.

But now, standing as part of a small group guards and the lords they protected, all waiting and watching in growing concern, the memory wasn't as amusing as it had seemed at the time.

'Look, there!' an aide pointed out over the wall. Everyone looked eagerly in the direction his finger was pointing, even most of the guards turned ever so slightly.

Iniron glared at the back of Duinhir's head. The lord of Morthond was blocking his line of vision. Sometimes being a guard was frustrating -finally! Duinhir shifted slightly and Iniron could see past him. Faramir's company was in sight, holding formation, with ranks of horsemen ahead and behind. There didn't seem to be any sign of pusuit; perhaps they would reach the gates without needing Imrahil's cavalry.

Without warning, the world began to whirl as a thrill of utter terror coursed through Iniron's very soul; forcing him to lean on his spear or fall to his knees. He felt every fear he had ever felt in his life: fear of dying, fear of this eternal half-darkness; of what horrible things might be lurking it its shadows, waiting for him. He felt his breathing quicken and his heart began to pound. He swallowed: his tongue was thick and his mouth dry. He ached to draw his sword and get his back against a wall, but he was afraid to move. He was clenching his spear in a death grip and his knuckles were starting to scream in pain. He fought against his panic, reminding himself of his duty to Gondor and her Steward; tried to tell himself there was no reason for this fear. It wasn't working, he was beginning to feel light-headed and sick.

An un-earthly shriek pierced through the black well of his panic, and then he understood. Nazgul. Now he saw them; or rather, he saw their grotesque winged mounts, still far over the Pelennor, they were circling and diving, harrying the men on the ground. Iniron could not look away. They had to be feeling the same unnatural terror that he was. How in Arda could they keep on as they were, maintaining formation, with those horrors attacking?

One of the winged monsters dove and pulled up just short of the ground, winging up and away sharply. Something large and dark was gripped in it's claws... a horse. Iniron could faintly hear the animal's screaming. The monster circled around and threw the horse into the retreating men on the ground. Despite being so far away, the young Guardsman on the wall closed his eyes, not wanting to even think about how many would be killed as the body of the horse cartwheeled through their ranks. _Oh Valar, help them_, he whispered, but a course of anger flooded through him at his own words. Valar indeed. What good were they? Sitting safely beyond the circles of the world, watching Sauron systematically destroy Middle-Earth. Always it had been so: they only intervened when events concerned them directly. The Valar were no help. It was up to Men, and this one would be dammed if he'd let fear or anything else keep him from doing his part. Iniron gritted his teeth in anger and opened his eyes.

The men had broken ranks and were running for their lives now, all semblance of order thrown to the wind. They were spread over an amazing distance... how _could_ some of the men fallen back that far and that quickly..? Especially for being --_mounted troops._ Mounted and carrying dark banners. Not Gondorian cavalry. They were Easterling.

The small group on the wall stood in tense silence, watching. _Run faster! You can make it!_ The men below had a good lead, they had a chance of making it to the Gates, if they'd only _hurry_.

_NO!_ Two Wraiths thudded to earth in front of the men, their horrible mounts roaring, wings spread wide, blocking the way to the City and safety. A ripple of almost-panic spread through the small group on the wall. Denethor's shoulders went tense and his hands clenched the edge of the parapet with a death grip as he watched the scattering men far below. They were being forced back into a wave of fast-approaching orcs, their own cavalry surrounded and cut off from them by the quicker and nimbler Easterling horses.

Iniron felt himself trembling. _The sortie? Denethor, release the cavalry now, or never!_ As if he had heard Iniron's mental cry, Denethor said, low, 'Release the sortie.'

For a moment no one moved. 'Release the sortie!' the Steward snapped, his voice harsh. The herald started, but quickly raised the trumpet and blew the signal.

Everyone stood listening as the signal was repeated down the circles. Iniron had never before noticed how very long it took. Half-a-dozen heartbeats, an eternity, passed from the final repitition of the signal till he saw the forefront of Imrahil's cavalry, the horses leaping the trenches dug to foil siege engines, their rider's battle cries drifting faintly up: '_For Faramir!'_

As the Ringwraiths turned to meet this new development, the lead horses began to panic and shy away from them and the menacing reptilian beasts they rode. Two horses collided; one went down. The unity of the formation was rapidly dissolving, even the battle-hardened war-horses belonging to Imrahil's knights were succumbing to an instinct that ran far deeper than their extensive training and beginning to break stride, plunging and fighting to turn away. But knifing through the melee came Mithrandir, his white stallion running true and without hesitation toward the Nazgul. As they passed the struggling lead horses, the stallion gave a short neigh heard even by the watchers on the wall, at the sound of which the frightened horses began to leave off fighting their riders and re-form behind him. From the wizard's raised hand white light streamed toward the Wraiths. Screaming agan, though in fear this time, and frustration, jerking their mounts backward away from the light so that they stumbled ungracefully into the air, winging away back towards Osgiliath.

Some ragged cheers rose from Faramir's company as Imrahil's cavalry swept around them, a few slowing to shield the men on foot while most thundered on to engage the Easterling mounted troops. The light horses that so easily outmanuvered the Gondorian's clumsy horsemanship were now at a distinct disadvantage against the powerful horses under the control of Imrahil's skilled and battle-eager knights. Barely slowing, one of the lead knights charged his horse into the hindquarters of one of the Easterlings' mounts. The smaller horse tumbled like a nine-pin, crushing his rider underneath when he hit the ground. Several more of the enemy fell in quick succession under the knights' deadly blades before the Easterlings dropped back to reform, their ranks broken and easy advantage gone. That brief respite was all the Gondorians needed to join their rescuers in galloping back to support the knights who had formed the rear defense for the foot soldiers. There was some short, fierce fighting as the enemy desperately tried to halt their quarry's now-assured escape into the shelter of the city; orcs and Southrons armed with swords, pikes and even a few crossbows throwing all they had into the effort. A few men and horses fell to their assault, but their efforts were too little, too late, and over almost as quickly as they had begun: both orcs and Southrons fell back rather than come close enough to provide easy targets for the archers who had appeared on the wall.

And now with almost unexpected suddenness the men were safe, passing under the great span of the gates that swung heavily shut behind them.

Relieved laughter began to escape the watching nobles, Duinhir going so far as to clap his hands heartily. Though of course they could not be as demonstrative as their lords, the guards' tense postures relaxed and a few quick smiles escaped their controlled expressions. Iniron breathed in deeply, the heaviness settled in his lungs from the past moments' tension washed away by the new air; and waited for some measure of excitement or happiness to take its place, but none came. Something was wrong; a feeling he couldn't put his finger on. He studied Denethor's back as though he could find the answer there. Other than straightening up a little when the gates had slammed home, the Steward had not shown any reaction, relief or otherwise, and stood with his hands clenching the edge of the parapet, still staring out towards Osgiliath. Silence began to spread over the group as the lords noticed Denethor's mood. Silence...Iniron suddenly realised that the cheering that had sprung up on the lower walls at the gates' shutting had died out. _Everything_ was silent.


End file.
